Perhaps as a precautionary measure he ought to immerse it in a bucketful of water. Bombs had been sent by registered post before now and a man who had scored the successes he had must expect to have enemies.
He sought an unfrequented offshoot of Shaftesbury Avenue and examined the outside closely. Then he shook the parcel but not a sound came to suggest a clue to the mystery.
“I’ll chance it,” he muttered, and strength reinforced by curiosity he burst the string with one wrench. The paper parted in his fat fingers and he saw the revolver he had entrusted to Bobbie Cheldon.
“The fool!” he spluttered, in his reaction from fear. That quickly passed and he smiled. “Frightened him a bit, I guess. He’s that kind. Mother’s darling and no guts. What’s this? Oh, a letter from Little Lord Fauntleroy. Love and kisses, I suppose.”
The smiling contempt vanished when he had read the letter, and his smile rose to triumphant heights when he had grasped the meaning of the signature.
“Dear Sir,” wrote Massy Cheldon in his clear, classical handwriting,
“I am returning the revolver you lent my nephew and in doing so may I be permitted to point out that to entrust a deadly weapon to a young man on a visit to an uncle whose corpse is worth ten thousand a year to him is to subject him to severe temptation. He yielded to that temptation last night, but the Cheldon motto is ‘Courage and Loyalty,’ and I proved that I lived up to the first part at any rate. May I suggest that in future you look after your armoury yourself?
Yours faithfully,
Massy Cheldon.”
The writer’s reluctance to miss a chance of boasting of his courage was responsible for a letter which only a fool and a cad could have written without thinking of the danger. Not that Massy Cheldon would have been distressed by a suggestion that it might have an unpleasant sequel for his nephew if he put a statement of his guilt in writing. “He deserves it,” he would have retorted, and at a hint of blackmail would have laughed. “You can’t blackmail a pauper,” would have ended the argument.
But now Nosey Ruslin stood on the pavement close to one of Shaftesbury Avenue’s poor relations and gazed rapturously at the sheet of notepaper which took all the bitterness out of the wind and filled the air with the gracious warmth of desired companionship.
“Nosey’s luck holds good,” he murmured with a smile in which the whole of his face participated. “Properly used that letter is worth a fortune. I’ll be able to retire sooner than I expected.”
Fresh plans formed themselves with the minimum of assistance of his mind, and under their influence he returned to his lodgings off Oxford Street and buried the revolver under the floor of his neighbour’s room, the weapon deriving its danger not from the absence of a licence, but solely from the fact that it had been stolen.
From his lodgings he came forth in search of Billy Bright and he found him within half an hour of dinner time.
“Borrow a quid off Nancy,” Nosey ordered with some acerbity when the dancer had wasted minutes voicing his depression. “Hurry up, Billy. You don’t suppose it’s only to look at you that I want you to dine with me?”
It was a one-sided and inaccurate summary of their arrangements, but Nosey had a habit of assuming the pose of host even when the waiter did not bring the bill to him. But anyhow Billy was indebted to him for scores of meals and for much real cash, and so the dancer had no option but to waylay his partner and coax the pound note which was Nosey’s minimum for a dinner for two in his present frame of mind.
They were the earliest arrivals at a small and not too popular restaurant within sound of Piccadilly, where Nosey had his usual flattering reception and a choice of tables which befitted a generous patron. In the fewest words he sketched the menu, ordered a couple of cocktails, and as he sipped his, surveyed the ground and estimated the hearing distance of their scattered fellow lunchers.
“Billy,” he said suddenly, with his eyes on the table to the left, “you’re not going to be a success as a dancer. Your day is over. Isn’t that the reason for the face?”
“I’ve been to nine agents since I saw you last,” Billy said, sourly. “And not a date.”
“What about the films?”
“No good either. They say it’ud be only crowd work for me, and I couldn’t come down to that.”
“Nancy is very pretty,” Nosey said gravely. “Pity she can’t act.”
Billy emitted a sound which might have been contempt.
“I wish I were not so fond of Nancy,” he said, and he meant it. “It’s been my professional ruin. Oh, yes, I know what you’d say, Nosey, and I’d agree with every word. She’s a real peach and no mistake about it. She has personality and pep, but she’s not a dancer. Good enough up to a point, but after that.” He shrugged his shoulders.
“Why not get another partner then?”
“And let Nancy go to some fellow who’d kid her into marrying him!” The tone was a whine of contempt. “That’s not my game, Nosey. I want Nancy and I’m going to have her.”
“But what about this young Cheldon? She’s rather keen on him, isn’t she? Wants to be a lady, you know.”
The sneer on the younger man’s face amounted to distortion.
“He’s only a half-wit; perhaps not even half. He’ll never be able to marry Nancy, and she’ll chuck him when she wakes up.”
“But what can you give her, Billy? It won’t be long before you’ll have to tell her the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.” Billy shuddered.
“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that,” he complained. “It reminds me.”
“Never mind, here’s the fish.”
The interlude proved comforting and when the dishes ceased and Billy was sipping the coffee he used as a minor drug he was in the best of good tempers.
“You were saying, Nosey?” he urged gently.
“That it was time you and me thought about settling down. Me for a quiet life in the country with a valet and a chicken farm. You with Nancy as Mrs. Billy Bright and a honeymoon at Monte Carlo and a racehorse or two of your own.” It was his way of touching lightly on the more obvious features of the life genteel as understood by both of them.
The small eyes glistened feebly.
“No more looking for engagements—no more insults from agents—no more smelly night clubs with chaps throwing things at you because they’re too drunk to see genius in two feet,” the ex-pugilist whispered lyrically.
“That’s it, Nosey, that’s it,” Billy breathed.
“Plenty of money in the bank with real ladies and gents anxious for to make your acquaintance and the county crowding round your beautiful wife.” Nosey was working himself up into an hysteria of bad poetry. “The police touching their helmets to you.”
The master-stroke dazzled Billy, who was more accustomed to police regarding him from under their helmets with an acquisitive expression.
“You’ll be able to draw your cheque for a thousand quid and more and not think nothing of it either.” Nosey once had had that blissful experience during the brief period when he had given promise of contesting the heavyweight championship of England.
“No more shaking hands when you’d rather be shaking fists,” the ex-pugilist continued excitedly, but never once allowing his excitement to control his voice. “No more of dirty London streets, but the London you and me ought to be in now, Billy.”
They both leaned back in their chairs to enjoy for as long as they were permitted the rapture of anticipation.
“But how are we to bring it off, Nosey?” asked Billy when he touched his empty glass and it symbolised to him the finish of the feast.
“Read that.” The letter from Massy Cheldon changed hands. “Understand? Well, listen.” The voice that annotated the letter and supplied explanatory notes never rose above a pawnshop whisper, but not a word escaped the dancer, whose sallow countenance d
eepened or lightened as hope or fear held sway. The powerful and penetrating optimism of his companion was not always able to prevent Fear rearing its head, but when at last there was nothing left even for the imagination his thoughts rose to the earthly paradise for two which Nosey had presented for his delectation and he pledged his enthusiastic co-operation in the achieving of it.
“But fancy Algy the Ass going in for that strong arm stuff!” he said with genuine admiration. “It only shows you that you never know.”
Nosey rested both his elbows on the table.
“Billy, I’ve been thinking a lot of late about this here crime wave and do you know the conclusion I’ve come to?”
Billy waited for the exposition in silence.
“That to commit murder in a crowd is the only safe way of doing it.” He laughed. “Not that you and me are thinking of that. Oh, no. That’s someone else’s job.”
“Young Cheldon’s?”
Nosey winked.
“Look at all them unsolved murder mysteries. I’ve counted fifteen of them in the last few years, and not an arrest, in some cases not even a clue. And, Billy.” He paused impressively. “All of them was murders committed in crowded streets. There was that chap Creed, I think his name was, murdered in a shop with hundreds of people passing. There was the landlady of a Chelsea pub and we know Chelsea ain’t exactly a desert isle. The girl, Vera Page, murdered in Kensington with thousands of people swarming round. And many others. Now take the country. Not many unsolved murder mysteries there. And why? I’ll tell you. A chap kills someone in a lonely village where everybody knows him and he’s missed if he doesn’t turn out for his beer and a fag at the local pub. Supposing he’s a stranger to the place? Well, everybody who sees him stares at him and remembers him. There’s the difference between a village and London. You and me see thousands of men and women every day but we take no notice of ’em. Now if we lived in Sausage-cum-Chips we’d spend the evenings talking about a strange chap we saw standing outside the Pig and Whistle or inquiring the shortest cut to the farm where hours later the body was found. If he asked us a question or passed the time of day we’d make conversation out of it for a fortnight, and if there was a murder we’d be able to tell what the stranger looked like, and he’d be copped inside an hour. If he wasn’t a stranger we’d know all about his quarrel with his wife’s sister-in-law’s uncle and the whole village would turn out to give evidence about the knife he sharpened on the stone above the river near the church. No, Billy, if you want to do a chap in do it in London where nobody takes no notice of nobody and it ain’t anyone’s business to talk about everybody’s. If I wanted to commit murder,” the articulation was barely audible. “I’d do it in the middle of Piccadilly when there was a big traffic jam worrying the peelers. I wouldn’t go down to Muck-on- the-Ridge and have the fifty inhabitants talking of nothing else but my visit. London has always been good enough for me, and don’t you forget it.”
“I see your point,” said Billy, nervously. “But where does young Cheldon come in?”
“We’ve got first to bring him in before he can come in,” was the reply. “This letter’s good enough but another one from him on top of it would be much better. I want my little plan to be fool proof and police proof. I want no mistakes. It’s a scheme in a thousand with a bit of a risk that isn’t a risk at all if you look at it the right way. But Billy, there’s a fortune for us, and Mr. Bobbie Cheldon will hand that fortune out when we call on him at Broadbridge Manor and he’s just finished paying the death duties on his uncle’s—er—death.” He smiled, and for the first time in their acquaintance Billy discovered that Nosey Ruslin could smile horribly.
“You can rely on me,” he whispered.
“That’s a certainty,” said Nosey with a grimness that his companion resented but refrained from revealing.
“How much do you think it ought to be, Nosey?” The tone was most conciliatory.
“Share and share alike—you and me, and me and you, it’ll be a matter of at least three thousand a year—I’m hoping it may be five. At least, that’s how I reckon it. We’re going to help Cheldon to inherit the family estate before he’s too old to enjoy it, and he’ll have to agree that it is worth dividing the money in equal shares.”
“You’re a marvel, Nosey, a right down, hundred per cent marvel, and no mistake,” exclaimed his audience.
“I have a head on my shoulders,” was the response. “Billy, you can leave the details to me. First of all I’ll get Cheldon to write to me agreeing to a reward—yes, a reward for our assistance.”
“Will he go as high as five thousand a year between us?”
“He won’t be asked to. A thousand pounds payable in instalments of a hundred quid is what I’m thinking of.”
Billy looked concerned.
“That’s a come-down, isn’t it?” he ventured.
Nosey’s grin was born of superiority of intellect.
“Don’t you see that all we want is something in his handwriting that’d be good enough for Scotland Yard if they saw it?” he whispered, not really angry because it was flattering to self-esteem to be the explainer and not the explainee. “He’ll write me agreeing to the terms and think himself lucky to have such a pal as your humble servant.”
The dancer’s face lighted up.
“Of course, what a fool I’ve been! I see it now, Nosey.” He stopped, fearful lest his excitement should have rendered his voice louder than he intended. “It won’t matter what the sum is, we can raise it sky-high when we have him in our power.”
“That’s it.” Nosey let his napkin slide to the floor. “I’m going to make contact with young Cheldon again. He owes me twenty-five quid already, and he’s going to owe me more. Meanwhile, Billy, get busy and borrow another quid if you can. I must take Cheldon out to lunch or dinner immediately he returns home, and I’m broke. What’s the bill? Eleven and tenpence. Give the waiter a couple of bob and I’ll take what’s left in case.”
They walked out together smoking cigars.
“Nancy’s dancing solo at the ‘Frozen Fang’ tonight,” said Billy when they arrived at the corner which parted them.
“Righto. I’ll bring Cheldon along if I can get hold of him. When I’ve got a job of work to do, Billy, I prefer to do it neatly and, if possible, swiftly.” He patted his friend on the back. “There’s an absolute money famine, and if we don’t hurry up it’ll get worse. And the worse it is the harder it will be to—er—to survive.” He smiled in a lazy, effortless way.
The dancer smiled in unison, and then suddenly became grave again.
“But, Nosey,” he said hesitatingly, “who’s going to do the job?” He was so nervous that his legs moved convulsively as if on wires.
“Leave that to me, my boy,” was the cheering reply. “Don’t I know exactly which of the lads of the village will be equal to a job that’ll be worth at least ten quid a second?”
The return of colour to Billy’s usually pallid countenance was interrupted by another doubt.
“That’s all right, Nosey,” he said, trying to appear hearty, “but if you make the plans and one of the boys does the—what you called it, where exactly do I come in?”
“You will be standing by when I want you,” said Mr. Ruslin, grave to the uttermost boundary of his lower chin. “You have promised to take orders from me, Billy, and you know what success will mean to both of us. You want a fortune. Well, did you ever hear of a fortune being made easily except in a sweepstake, and—” he paused impressively, “I ain’t goin’ to take no chances so this’ll not be a blooming sweepstake. So long.”
He sauntered away, a heavy figure of geniality, ease and good nature. Shaftesbury Avenue was thronged with pedestrians and loafers, but Nosey passed on his way as if he was a ghost who was invisible to them. Great and significant events were toward and he had to keep his thinking faculties in a condition of constant exercise
. He had realised exactly the extent of the risks he was facing, the dangers lurking around him, and under and above him, but they dwindled into insignificance whenever he pondered on the rich monetary rewards that would await him when it was in his power to offer Bobbie Cheldon an undisturbed tenancy of the Cheldon estate but also a tenancy of this world for as long as it pleased Providence to grant him health sufficient to sustain life. Robert Cheldon, Esquire—the muser’s formal rendering of Bobbie’s full name and honorary suffix afforded him considerable consolation—might object. There was every reason to anticipate that he would “kick”—a term which summed up satisfactorily every possible argument and attitude Massy Cheldon’s nephew could evolve or assume when he was presented with a demand for the relinquishment of half or two-thirds of his tragically-acquired income. Nosey Ruslin smiled under his lips at the surprise in store for the young gentleman and in the smile was all the savagery and cruelty of which the easy-going, gentle ex-pugilist was capable.
Seven of his friends were privately interviewed by him before midnight, but not one of them would disgorge any portion of the cash with which they were fighting the famine, as Nosey styled the general shortage before jokingly introducing the reason for the conference. He was accordingly still famine-stricken when at five minutes past twelve he entered the “Frozen Fang” and joined Billy Bright at a table in a corner some distance from the small platform on which Nancy Curzon was scheduled to dance for the second time.
“He’s not here,” said Billy, in front of whom was a glass which emitted a faint odour signifying that it had recently contained whisky.
“How did Nancy’s turn go?”
The young man strangled at birth a look of satisfaction.
“Rotten,” he answered, and as if appreciating what Nancy’s failure could mean to him he added with feeling, “They were too sober to give her a chance, the curs! Nosey, unless she picks up when she dances at half-past it’ll be all up with our partnership and I’ll simply have to chuck her!”
“And if I know Miss Nancy,” said Mr. Ruslin carelessly, “she’ll express her opinion of you with her fists as well as with her tongue.”
Murder in Piccadilly Page 11
